She stretches her neck regally and looks around. “There are more things on heaven and earth, Maxwell…”
“You got a psychic vision about her?” I ask sarcastically.
I shouldn’t be a jerk, I remind myself. But I can’t help but be a tiny bit annoyed. I spent three years with Zella. If Sunny is right, it was a complete waste of time.
“It is plain as the nose on your face,” she sings theatrically. “Open your eyes and see…”
“It’s just a work relationship,” I object.
“Follow your heart,” she continues singing.
I push myself up from the chair, almost certain that she is quite tipsy, perhaps verging on drunk.
“Just work, Auntie!” I insist.
“Work, work, work, makes Max a
dull boy…” she continues, letting her eyes close as she leans back, smiling to herself.
When I’m certain that she is drifting off, I dare to leave the veranda in search of sleep. The servants will retrieve her and get her off to bed safely. I know she will be fine.
But as I lie in a bed fit for Windsor Castle, I can’t get my mind to settle down. Of course those years I spent with Zella were not a complete waste of time. I was very fond of her.
But there is at least some truth in what Sunny says. Being around Clarissa is simply different. It’s… invigorating. It’s a challenge. It makes me want to try harder. It’s as thrilling as a game of chess against a hidden opponent. I wonder what her next move will be.
Chapter 8
Clarissa
The Hollywood-themed bedroom is remarkably comfortable, and I sleep so well that waking up is a disappointment. I wouldn’t mind lying on the satin sheets for another hour, but as my eyes open, images from last night start to filter back.
Sunny is such a wonderful hostess, but I think she might have gotten me a little bit drunk. I remember being slightly overeager to hear details about Maxwell’s personal life. He didn’t seem to enjoy it, but I didn’t do anything to stop it. As soon as she started talking, I wanted to know more. Stories about her life are fascinating, but stories about Maxwell really drew me in.
I’m sure he noticed. I’m sure he’s annoyed with my unprofessional curiosity.
All right, I tell myself, today will be different. I will be 100 percent professional. All business. Pictures and text.
The green sweater and jeans are a good fit. I am really glad that I picked out this outfit. After a brief shower in the attached bathroom, a dizzying chamber of mirrored surfaces reflecting off of each other into infinity, I dress and pull the iPad from my briefcase. Now I am ready to take pictures and write notes. What could be more professional than that?
Maxwell’s door is still closed, and I wonder if I am the first one awake. Hopefully Sunny won’t mind if I just wander around, poking my head into the various rooms to get this all documented.
There are at least ten paintings by Salvador Dali here that I have never seen before. I’m not really an art expert or anything, but there have been several shows at the Art Institute of Chicago over the years of his work. I own two catalogs from those shows. I thought I was pretty familiar with him. But these are things I’ve never seen before. Mixed in with the melting clocks and the strange, foreign landscapes are tiny regiments of insects and drooping vases of flowers. It’s intriguing. I wish I could stay longer and take more pictures. I am sure someone could write a whole book.
Circling through the rooms and randomly picking passages to explore, suddenly I find myself back on the veranda. As soon as I step through an egg shaped doorway, Maxwell and Sunny turn around, clearly startled to see me. As her eyes focus, she breaks into a clever, wide smile.
“Good morning, Clarissa!” she calls out.
Her fingertips drum on the closed top of a basket with handles. Her other hand knuckles her hip as she casts her weight to one side. She’s wearing a long swirling caftan like yesterday, but this one is in a dizzying collection of violet and fuchsia shapes. Just below the hem, I see the pointed toe of a jeweled slipper poking out.
“Good morning, um, Auntie,” I answer obediently as I approach.
Matthew smooths his hair back with the palm of his hand. The tan, loose-gauge sweater he’s wearing curls over his muscles before being tucked smartly into smooth, fitted trousers. I swallow, reminding myself not to look like I’m staring. It’s just so strange to see him outside of work clothes. He looks like a Ralph Lauren ad.
Sunny pats the top of the basket again with the palm of her hand. “All right, then,” she announces, as though we have been discussing something already. “You two take this, and I’ll see you at dinner!”
My mouth pops open in surprise as she sweeps around the other side of the table and leaves the veranda without another word. As an explanation, Maxwell just sort of shrugs.
“She said it’s a picnic,” he explains, gesturing toward the basket. “We’re supposed to take it with us.”